Black Valley (26 page)

The man looked relieved. ‘Oh. The birds, is it? Well now, I’m not a bird man myself.’ He approached them. He smelled of damp, of earth, of musty, unwashed clothing. ‘But
we’ve got a nesting pair over there. Peregrine falcons, they are.’

The dog saw the man speaking to them, stopped barking, and left the window.

Jess got into conversation with the guard. They talked about the falcons for a while, and then, eyeing Dresler, he checked himself and remembered his role.

‘Anyway,’ the man checked himself. ‘This is private property, mind, so you’d better be on your way.’

‘Of course. Thanks for your help.’ Dresler began to walk quickly towards the gate. Jess followed him, in the hope that he’d slow down. He was altogether too jumpy.

The man went round the side of the building, away from them, and disappeared into a side door.

‘What did you make of that?’ Dresler asked, when they were out of earshot.

‘You mean, the warehouse?’

He nodded.

‘It’s obviously where Morris works, isn’t it? All those pots of paint. And the piles of coal.’ Jess paused. ‘Though no sign of any canvasses or brushes. That was
odd, wasn’t it? I wonder where he actually does the paintings.’

‘He must live somewhere around here.’ Dresler sounded excited. ‘If only we could find out where.’

‘Unless that guy we just met is Morris?’

Dresler frowned. ‘I doubt it somehow. But it’s a possibility, I suppose.’

‘Perhaps if we come back sometime, we’ll see him.’

‘I’m not chancing it.’ Dresler’s tone was final. ‘I don’t want to annoy him. And that dog looked vicious. Come on, let’s get back to the car.’

‘No rush,’ said Jess. ‘We’re perfectly entitled to walk here, you know.’ She paused. ‘There are some rare orchids around here, I’ve heard. The red
helleborine and the coral root. I just saw one, I think, at the entrance to the gate. I’d like to see if I can find another.’

Dresler laughed. Now he was out of danger, he seemed to relax. ‘We’re supposed to be on the trail of a reclusive genius, not looking for wild flowers.’

‘I don’t see why we can’t do both.’

‘Fine. But let’s not be hours, eh?’

‘It’ll take ten minutes.’

They crossed the gravel road, and headed up the hill on the other side. All around them, there were fields dotted with molehills, as if the moles had redoubled their tunnelling efforts to
compete with their human counterparts. They stopped at another view of the quarry. From this angle, they could see great blue and yellow lakes surrounding it, the flooded remains of the iron and
ochre mines that wound under the earth.

‘Wow. It looks like the Mines of Moria from up here,’ Jess murmured, gazing on the spectacle below. The abandoned quarries were sinister and silent, the vivid blues and yellows
almost surreal, a testament to humanity’s ability to wreak havoc upon nature. Yet, apparently, nature had struck back: this place, like so much of the pillaged valleys of South Wales, was
teeming with wildlife. Part of the reason being that few people ever saw fit to visit the area: its raddled post-industrial beauty simply didn’t appeal to most people’s idea of a rural
idyll.

‘Yes, and I think we just met one of the Longbeards,’ Dresler said.

She laughed, and he leaned forward and kissed her. Their good humour with each other seemed to have returned.

She looked for the orchids, but found none. Instead she found other treasures – wood barley, sanicles, rare ferns. The wood anemones were closing their petals for the night. For a mad
moment, elated by the majestic beauty of the landscape, she imagined what it must be like to be one of them, dimly aware of the heat and the cold, the light and the dark, for a few glorious days of
life in the dappled shade of the beech trees before withering away. Then she put such fanciful thoughts out of her mind, took Dresler’s hand, and led him down the hillside, through the woods
and back to the safety of the car.

Dresler left for London that evening. He’d wanted Jess to come with him, but she’d decided to spend the rest of the weekend at home. She’d been away too often
of late, and she needed some ‘downtime’, as her colleagues called it, lounging around on the sofa, cooking the odd meal, and pottering about in the garden. Rose had a number of
activities planned, and Nella would probably be spending most of her time with Gareth, but she hoped that at some point, they’d have the chance to regroup. She’d always found that the
only way to catch up with what was going on in her children’s lives was to be around the house for a while, in the background, picking up discarded socks and tidying away bowls of cornflakes,
until at some point, one of them started up a conversation with her.

She dropped Dresler off at the station and drove home, tired and a little dispirited. She wasn’t sure why she’d gone off on this wild goose chase with him. She’d been curious
about Morris, of course, and the mystery of his true identity still intrigued her, but she was aware that the issue really didn’t concern her. After all, with the girls and her clients to
attend to, she had more than enough on her plate already. Not only that, but Dresler had irritated her somewhat on the trip. She couldn’t help feeling that for all his evident love of
Morris’s work, what he really wanted was . . . not money exactly . . . but power, power over Morris’s career, power in the art world. She would have done better, she thought, to stay at
home, catch up on the housework, the laundry, and a million other tasks that needed doing.

When she got in, she had a surprise waiting for her. Nella and Rose had cooked supper – just a simple pasta with a ready-made sauce and a salad, but it was a sweet, thoughtful gesture.
Mari was there too, having just dropped in to visit on the off chance that Jess was at home, and having stayed to chat with the girls. Jess suspected it was she who’d suggested that they cook
for her, but even so, it was good to be looked after for once. In the past, Bob would have had dinner waiting for her when she got home late after a day out; she wondered, sometimes, if that was
what she missed most about having him around.

As she, Mari and the girls sat down together to eat, Jess sensed that a calm had descended on the house, one that had been largely absent since Bob’s departure. Nella and Rose served the
meal in a rhythm of domestic order that she’d established since they were little, copying the touches that made it hers: heated dinner plates, ice in the jug of water, paper napkins –
in this case, kitchen roll – and, in the centre of the table, some small flowers or a simple bit of greenery picked from the garden – today, a few primroses in a tiny cut-glass vase her
mother had given her years ago. The girls were growing up, she realized, learning her way of running a household.

Rose was affectionate and chatty, almost back to her old self. She seemed to have relaxed a little since the debacle with Tegan, secure in her father’s affections once more. Bob had made a
special effort with her that day, taking her out to play tennis and afterwards to lunch. Nella, on the other hand, seemed slightly preoccupied; she was tugging at the hem of her T-shirt again,
trying to cover her navel. She’d never been self-conscious about it before – indeed, there’d always been a rather large expanse of it, proudly displayed in low-cut jeans and
skimpy tops. She’d have to have a talk with her, Jess thought. Surely if she was pregnant, she’d have come to her. Or perhaps there was some trouble with Gareth; this was the first time
she’d seen her on her own, without him, for ages. Then again, maybe Nella was simply being Nella: head in the clouds, either plotting world domination or worrying away at some minor problem
that had reached epic proportions in her mind.

The food was good, and their conversation full of warmth and humour. Mari had known the girls since they were babies, and they’d come to treat her as one of the family. They behaved
naturally in her presence, so much so that when it was time for their favourite programme,
Come Dine with Me
, they asked if they could finish their meal in front of the television. Mari
didn’t mind, so they picked up their plates and went off.

‘So what were you up to today?’ Mari asked, as soon as they were out of earshot. ‘Were you with Dresler?’

Jess nodded. ‘It was rather exciting, actually. We went off looking for this reclusive artist, Hefin Morris. You know, the one who did those black paintings we saw at the party.’

‘Oh God, those. So Dresler’s a fan, is he?’

Mari hadn’t listened to a word of Dresler’s speech at the private view, Jess realized.

‘Absolutely. Thinks he’s a genius.’ She paused. She was going to add that she, too, thought the paintings were impressive, but she decided not to. She didn’t want to get
into one of those tedious ‘call that art, you must be joking, I could do that standing on my head with my eyes closed’ kind of conversations. Not that she dismissed such views –
indeed, she herself had often had the sense, standing in front of some baffling installation, that much contemporary art was really a case of the emperor’s new clothes – it was just
that the arguments against it tended to be so repetitive.

‘He must be off his rocker.’ Mari took another helping of tagliatelle, sprinkling a handful of pine nuts over it. ‘Why was he looking for this guy?’

‘Well, Blake Thomas was more or less acting as Morris’s agent. He sold that picture to the museum, and was hoping to sell a lot more, as a consultant to all these international hedge
fund managers and so on. And then . . . well, you know.’

Mari nodded. Jess had told her about Blake’s suicide at the tower, but had warned her not to mention it to the girls. There was no reason to frighten them with the details of a horrific
event that didn’t concern them. They were in the sitting room now, out of earshot, but there was no telling when one of them might wander in and overhear their conversation.

‘Anyway,’ Jess went on, ‘Morris needs a new agent. Dresler seems to fit the bill. So that’s why he wants to meet him. To offer his services.’

‘Did you find him?’

‘We found a warehouse where he keeps his stuff. Nearly got attacked by a dog. It was quite exciting, actually.’

Mari laughed. ‘He sounds rather intrepid.’

‘Not really. It was more the other way round.’ Jess put down her fork. ‘To be honest, I found him a bit irritating. He kept bossing me around, and then getting flustered when
anything went wrong.’

Mari laughed again. ‘Doesn’t take long, does it?’

‘I suppose he was out of his comfort zone. I can’t blame him for that.’ Jess hesitated, about to voice a thought that had troubled her all day. ‘It’s just that he
seems slightly wrapped up in himself, that’s all. In his career, his rarefied little world. I sometimes feel he doesn’t really listen to what I say.’

‘How unusual.’ Mari reached for the grater and the parmesan, helping herself to a generous portion. ‘But there must be compensations?’

Jess nodded, but didn’t reply.

Mari stopped eating, and gave her a quizzical look. ‘You know, considering you’re a psychotherapist, you’re very prudish about some things.’

‘What things?’

‘Sex.’

Jess laughed. ‘Well, talking about it, anyway.’

‘I see. So there
are
compensations.’

‘I suppose so.’ Jess was serious for a moment. ‘I mean, of course it’s wonderful to have sex again, especially after so long without it. And I do really like him.
Sometimes I think I’ve fallen in love with him.’ She sighed. ‘But even so, I miss that feeling of being . . .’ She searched for a word. ‘. . . I don’t know,
bonded with him. Like I was with Bob.’

‘Well, Bob’s the father of your children. You are bonded to him, literally, whether you like it or not.’ Mari twiddled her tagliatelle around her fork, and popped it in her
mouth.

‘You’re rather good at that,’ Jess said.

‘Mmm.’ Mari spoke with her mouth full. ‘Learned it from an Italian boyfriend of mine. His family ran a cafe in the valleys.’

She did another expert twiddle. Jess watched her, following suit.

‘The thing is, at this stage of the game, you don’t really know what you’re looking for.’ Mari swallowed her mouthful and went on. ‘You want a suitable man. But
suitable for what? You don’t need a father for your children. You don’t need someone to live with. You just need a bit of companionship from time to time.’

‘I think I want more than that.’ The tagliatelle didn’t seem to be behaving itself so well for Jess. There were bits of it dangling down from her fork, instead of being wrapped
around it. ‘I want someone I feel close to all the time. Spiritually. Emotionally.’

‘Well, good luck with that, as they say.’ Mari finished eating, and dabbed her lips with her napkin. ‘By the way, have you got any wine in the fridge?’

‘Help yourself. I’m not drinking. I’ve got some reading to catch up on after this.’

‘OK, you carry on.’ Mari got up, went over to the fridge and opened it. ‘I think I’ll go and watch telly with the kids. And don’t worry about clearing up,
we’ll see to it.’

‘Thanks, Mari.’ Jess paused. ‘And thanks for coming over. The girls really like you being here. And so do I. We need another adult in the house sometimes, the three of us. It
feels more like a family, somehow.’

‘It is a family, of sorts,
cariad
.’ Mari found a bottle and unscrewed it. Then she went over to the wall cupboard to find a glass.

Just then, Jess’s mobile went off. It was on the sideboard, and she went over to pick it up.

‘Hello?’

Mari left the kitchen, carrying her glass of wine.

‘It’s Elinor.’

‘Oh, hello.’ Jess wasn’t overjoyed that Elinor was phoning her at the weekend. Especially since she’d recently signed off as a client.

‘I’d like to see you. Soon, if possible.’

It was her own fault, Jess told herself, for giving Elinor her mobile number. Even so, she thought, she might have waited until Monday.

‘Things aren’t going well with Isobel,’ Elinor continued. ‘I . . . I need to talk to you.’

Jess sighed. She’d taken on a new client to fill Elinor’s session. The only way she’d be able to see her would be to offer her an after-hours appointment.